


Acrid

by Red Charade (traciller)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traciller/pseuds/Red%20Charade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't smell right and Derek is determined to get to the bottom of it and fix the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acrid

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. This is purely for entertainment purposes only.

His scent was acrid. Derek had smelled it on him all week and hadn't wanted to pry. He'd thought the boy would come to him on his own when he was ready. He usually took that route and it was usually the right one to take. But, sometimes, members of his pack needed a bit of a nudge. A reminder that he was there and while it might be a bit awkward he would talk to them about whatever they needed to talk about. And he was happy to do it, because he was the alpha and they were his pack.

Derek especially wanted to give Stiles a little space because he knew what that acrid scent meant. It was the scent of sadness, of grief. He knew that smell very well.

Except...he wasn't sure why Stiles smelled that way. Nobody else seemed to understand it, either. There had been no recent supernatural attacks. Nobody had died recently, that Derek was aware of. Not anyone close to Stiles, anyway.

However, when that acrid scent became more pronounced, more pungent, Derek had finally gotten serious about figuring out what was going on. He didn't want to just corner Stiles and force the information out of him. He would if he had to, but he didn't want to have to go that route. And, since nobody in the pack knew what was wrong, and even Scott seemed at a loss, he had done some digging the old fashioned way.

Well, not too old fashioned. He'd commandeered Peter's laptop for it. His uncle seemed more annoyed at the fact that Derek was hunting and pecking at the keys, though, rather than having to give up the computer for a few hours.

Whatever, this was too important to worry about his uncle's OCD on computer usage and etiquette.

He came up with nothing, though, and growled, shoving the computer away from himself and getting up to go get a beer from the fridge. It wouldn't effect him the way it did humans, but it gave him something to do.

On the way to the kitchen, though, he passed the calendar, stopping when something caught his eye. Isaac was the one to diligently cross off each day after it was done, so at a glance he knew what day it was without having to think.

“Shit...” he growled to himself as he realized what today was. Of course! Why didn't he think of that before? There weren't many things that made Stiles upset like this, but most of the things that did tended to center around his mother in one way or another.

He turned and went to the front door, grabbing his keys from the peg.

“Where are you going?” Peter asked him, having just finished checking over his laptop for claw marks and finding it pristine.

“Out.” was all Derek said as he slammed the door behind himself.

***

“Dad's still complaining about the diet, but he cooperates. Except when he steals Snickers bars from the vending machine at the station. He doesn't think I know but I do...” Stiles says, quietly, as he sits on the ground, cross-legged and staring at the grass, pulling at it with one hand, a pile of little blue flowers on his other side.

He wiped his face with one hand and then startled when he felt someone sit down next to him, on the side without the flowers. A warm, gentle hand came to rest on his back, rubbing slow and soothing circles.

“It's just me.” Derek said, softly, looking at the headstone which read Stiles' mother's name, birth date and death date, a picture of her right on the stone, and an epitaph under the picture. It was a large, highly polished and well cared for grave marker. Room for another person's information on the other side. Probably Stiles' father's information, when the time came.

“I'm not crying.” Stiles said, his voice a bit watery and betraying the lie.

“Didn't say you were.” the werewolf responded, continuing to rub the boy's back.

There was silence for a while, which was a little unnerving. Stiles was never quiet for long. Even when he was upset. In fact, especially when he was upset.

“Stiles...” Derek said, after a good fifteen minutes.

“Everyone forgot.” was his reply, knowing he didn't need to elaborate on the fact that today was the anniversary of his mother's death.

“Not everyone.” Derek said, quietly. It was true that he hadn't realized what day was coming up, but he hadn't needed anything written down for him when he did realize the day.

Stiles sniffled again, but said nothing. Derek wasn't sure he totally bought that or not. In fact, Derek wasn't sure if he himself bought it. It sounded like semantics, even in his head.

“Where's your dad?” he was fairly certain that the sheriff was unlikely to forget the day his wife died. The pain he felt over her passing kept him smelling like that acrid scent in varying degrees almost all the time.

“It hurts him too much to come here, especially when we're together...it's kind of awkward.” Stiles said, quietly. It was true, they didn't really ever speak about his mother. Not unless his father was especially drunk and it always caught Stiles by surprise. And he didn't want to bring anything up that would make his father feel worse. Even this. He could handle it alone, he really could, but he just wished that...at least Scott had remembered.

It wasn't that Scott was a bad friend. It was just that he still had a lot going on in his own life, as well, and sometimes important things slipped his mind. He was sure that when Scott realized it, he'd be pissed at himself and wanting to make it up to Stiles. That didn't mean it didn't hurt any less right now, in the moment.

“So. Forget-me-nots.” Derek said, nodding toward the little flowers on Stiles' other side.

“Yeah...” he sniffled again, but he was still definitely not crying. Nope. Not at all.

And Derek didn't bring it up.

“Were they her favorite?” Derek's tone was quiet, reverent. He had never met Mrs. Stilinski to the best of his recollection, but she must have been a wonderful person. She had brought Stiles into the world, after all, and he loved her and cherished her memory with a fierce loyalty, even if there was also guilt mixed in. The sheriff had never been able to bring himself to move on. And he'd met others who'd known her. She had inspired great love in everyone she'd met. He hadn't ever gone looking for how she died, because he had felt that would be too intimate an invasion of privacy. But, he gathered from stray pieces of conversation that her passing hadn't been quick.

“No...but...” Stiles wiped at his face. But they weren't tears, his eyes were just watering. Damn ragweed. In November...

Derek waited for him to elaborate, moving a hand up to the back of Stiles' neck and moving his fingers into the soft hairs at the base, massaging lightly.

“Her favorites are too pricey. And at least...at least I can let her know I haven't forgotten her if I bring her these instead...” Stiles mumbled.

Derek didn't bring up the fact that you gave forget-me-nots to a person you didn't want to forget you. Not that you wanted to assure you hadn't forgotten them. But, he was pretty sure that was the point. Showing up here meant that he hadn't forgotten. The flowers meant that he hoped she hadn't, either. Did his worry that he was a bad son really run that deep?

Instead of bringing any of that up, he frowned and got a serious look on his face, wrapping his arm around Stiles' shoulders and manhandling the boy against him for a one-armed hug, forcing the boy's face against his chest. He made certain that, despite Stiles' flailing insistence to the contrary, the human was not about to smother.

“What are her favorites?” he asked.

“Epidendrum orchids...” he answered, immediately, having stopped flailing and was now pushing at Derek. To no avail. “The red ones.”

The alpha let go of Stiles abruptly and stood up, causing the boy to flail again and nearly fall down.

“Hey!” Stiles protested.

Derek refused to explain himself, instead grabbing Stiles by the scruff of his shirt collar and helping him to stand, as though he were an overgrown puppy.

“Come on.”

“What? Why? Where are we going? I wasn't done yet!”

“To the florist.” he answered, dragging a flailing and yelping Stiles after him.

***

“Oh my God, Derek, seriously?” Stiles asked, as he looked down at his mother's grave. There were several bouquets of red epidendrum orchids surrounding the headstone, some doubled up on top of each other.

Derek's response to this was a single eyebrow rising up slightly.

“You bought out the supply of these from every florist in town!”

The werewolf continued to give Stiles that blank stare.

“Don't you think this is going a little overboard? How much did this cost?” Stiles had been with him, but he had taken great pains to make sure that the boy had no idea of the price. He didn't want Stiles thinking he needed to pay Derek back.

“Of course not.” Derek said, as if it were obvious, not even bothering to dignify the second question with a response. It had been fairly obvious he hadn't wanted Stiles to know the answer.

“Oh my God, Stiles, I'm so sorry!!” came a rushed, harried voice just before a wayward bus slammed into Stiles from behind and knocked him to the ground.

Or, you know, it could just be Scott.

“Holy God, I think you broke all my ribs!” Stiles whimpered.

Derek watched, rolling his eyes. He knew the boy was fine. And so did Stiles, he was just being dramatic.

“I'm so sorry, I forgot all about it. I thought this was next week. That's no excuse either, I'm so sorry! Do you hate me??” Scott babbled as he clung to Stiles from behind and nuzzled at his best friend's cheek and neck.

“Of course I don't hate you. Get off of me, you're crushing my spine.” Stiles said, indignantly.

Scott whined and clung tighter, shifting a little bit in a way that he mistakenly thought would make it easier for Stiles.

“Oh my God, my spleen!” Stiles squeaked.

Scott sighed and finally got up off of him, helping his friend up and even dusting him off a little. Not that you could dust off grass and mud stains. But, whatever. Stiles was used to those from lacrosse.

“Hey...what's with all the orchids?” Scott asked, frowning a little as he finally noticed the rows of orchids surrounding Mrs. Stilinski's grave stone.

“Derek bought out every florist in town.” Stiles answered.

Derek frowned.

“Wow...seriously?” Scott asked, eyes widening a bit.

“See! I told you!” Stiles said, looking over at the older werewolf.

Derek just scoffed and rolled his eyes. He knew that Stiles appreciated it, even if he was going to be a brat about it. It just meant the boy was finally feeling a bit better.

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> I know this kind of went abruptly from angsty feels to humor. I hope it didn't throw anyone off or seem too random.


End file.
